


Forgotten Best Friends

by Arithanas



Category: British Folklore & Mythology
Genre: Being Chained to Things, Folklore, Gen, Pets, Spells & Enchantments, Storm - Freeform, Tombstones, Witchcraft, Witches, church grim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-07 18:40:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16413734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/pseuds/Arithanas
Summary: They tore down the church and left you behind, tied to an old stone





	Forgotten Best Friends

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cher/gifts).



Ariadne stopped in the middle of the forest trail. Sweat dripped into her eyes and she mopped at it with a cotton rag. If these ancient maps were exact, she still had a couple of miles to go before she reached that forgotten graveyard and the ruins of that Catholic cloister that was demolished during the English Reformation. 

An owl hooted overhead and she smiled. She was probably the first human that owl had seen in many months; that was as good a sign as Ariadne could ask for. The picture of that dilapidated narthex she found on Reddit was posted three months ago, and the original poster said it was taken during last year’s summer vacation. He certainly didn’t expect to stumble upon an old church and graveyard when he was “looking for a place to shag his trailing buddy”. His words, not Ariadne’s. 

Despite his charming personality, the OP was kind enough to share a treasure trove of pictures. Rain had washed away the names on the crumbling gravestones, but the relief was sturdier and Ariadne felt her heart leap when she noticed the skull and bones and the winged skulls in those century old stones. She took a sip of water and started on her way again.

Ariadne thought the sun should be setting soon, but she couldn’t be sure. The canopy was too dense and the wind was getting chilly. The dark clouds she had seen when she parked her jeep at the edge of the forest would be rolling in. Rain was bad. Ariadne hoped she was not standing in the middle of a thunderstorm without her copper charms.

After half an hour of pushing her way through branches and slipping on rocks, Ariadne found the place. OP wasn’t really thinking with his head when he took notes. The graveyard rolled down a small hill where fog started raising. Grass—not moss—had grown over the first gravestones; those near the ruins still stood in place. 

The owl hooted again and this time its cry received a reply.

Ariadne had expected to hear that mournful howl, but its deep and long note filled her with fathomless sadness anyway.

“I’m not here to cause mischief,” Ariadne promised. The plaid against her torso felt damp; cold cut through it. Her heart was pounding against her ribcage. “I want to meet you, good boy.”

The howl didn’t sound again. Ariadne sat and pulled her battered backpack over her knees. How many times had she done this same ritual? She had forgotten. It had become as natural as breathing. She could do it with her eyes closed, and thanks to the rising fog, she might have to try. Rummaging inside her backpack, she felt the round part of the bone against the palm of her hand. She pulled out the bone and the spool of red wool twine near it and began the laborious task of knotting the twine around that fresh calf bone.

He was there, hunkering down and looking at her from his place near the cornerstone. His soft, confused whine reached her ears.

Ariadne knotted the twine. Her own eyes trying to discern his features. Her lips repeated the spell she had learned when she was a kid. 

He approached her. His long, black muzzle was open just wide enough to let his tongue hang. The more twine Ariadne knotted, the more insistent his whines became. This church and graveyard had been his home for centuries, since that day when he started residing under the setting stone. 

Ariadne repeated the words, words that have never been written down on paper. Words that were bequeathed from woman to woman since the beginning of the world. 

Without a warning, he barked, loudly. His tail was stiff and his back legs were coiled, ready to bound off. The ghost of a bell, tolling for the dead, resounded in that thick forest. Ariadne tied the seven loop knot at the center of the bone shaft. 

The bell tolled louder; thunder cracked over her head. He started to run at full speed among the memorial stones, now bereft of memory. Ariadne knotted, recited, and waited.

Raindrops danced over ancient stones. He growled, barked, and howled, sending shivers down Ariadne’s spine.

Finally, the Church Grim approached her. His fine head rested on top of Ariadne’s backpack; his tongue, cold as the graves, licked Ariadne’s hand. A flash of lightning allowed her to see his sad eyes, full of centuries of neglect and solitude.

“They tore down the church and left you behind, tied to an old stone,” Ariadne mumbled, tears falling steadily as she caressed a loyal forehead that hadn’t been touched since Henry the VIII was king.

The Church Grim turned his head toward the cornerstone, whining like a puppy.

“You don’t need to be alone,” Ariadne said, feeling as his muzzle lifted her free arm and his cold nose poked her side. Another Grim's cold nose caressed the back of her neck. “You have us now.”

Lightning lit up the sky, and with its light to guide their path, the witch and her pack of church grims started back up the way out of the forest.

**Author's Note:**

> My gratitude to K. who is an excellent beta.


End file.
